Knowledge is Power
by KeepCalmFanFicExists
Summary: Harry has always been an average student, with the difference that he misses exams to save the world from Evil. Although this sounds pretty cool, a certain Dark Lord has his objections -set in OotP.


Harry fidgeted with his notes, pretending to be looking for a particular page while Seamus Finnigan was handing out the Potions homework. He had no intention of seeing the expression of loathing and contempt in his former friend's face one more time. It was getting really old and he felt so drained, he couldn't even find the energy to get angry at those idiots who believed denying the horrible truth would actually make Lord Voldemort go away.

Harry sighed to himself and Hermione turned around to eye him worryingly. After his third week of detention with Umbridge, she was becoming increasingly concerned about him, not failing to notice the dark purple bags under his eyes and the slow, tired moves of a boy who used to be faster than his own shadow. The Prefect was, thankfully, distracted by Seamus, who handed her her essay on 'The Use of Dragon Blood in Potions' and her face lit up; probably another 'O'. Harry averted his gaze from her three-foot parchment, not wanting to be reminded of his fiasco-of-a-study-session. Due to the detentions and Quidditch practices, he had only two hours after midnight to put together three shorts paragraphs that he wasn't even sure were written in proper English.

A sharp edge pocked him on the side, and he realised it was his essay, left next to him by a very angry Seamus. Harry's first thought was to stuff it in his bag without looking at the 'D' he had surely received, but the thought he might have gotten a detention because of this too made him want to be prepared for this. So, with a frown and a deeper sigh, he turned around and grabbed the piece of parchment, only for his jaw to drop epically. Harry remained perfectly still from shock for almost a minute. His essay had an 'O' inked at the top. Yes, it was unmistakably an 'O', not a 'D' or any other letter of the alphabet; an 'O' that had been made under extreme pressure, slightly tearing the delicate skin of the parchment and soaking it in jet black ink. Snape had obviously been over himself with rage when he came across such an analytical and precise explanation of the uses of Dragon Blood in Potion-making, full with rare examples that more than covered the two-feet essay he had assigned his unfortunate students.

A mild electroshock jolted Harry's numb brain. He had not written these things. All Harry had managed at two in the morning was to cover the basics from Ron's essay, who, in turn, had copied most of his own from Hermione's leftover notes. Harry's gaze ran across the paper.

 _'Recent studies have proved the inextricable bond between organic ingredients and transaminase agents. Amino acids and_ _α_ _-keto acids, known for their rapid, readily-reversible reactions, coalesce at the Potion's core to offer clarity, rejuvenation and stability from within. Taking into account the Superposition Principle...'_

Okay, obviously Harry could never have possibly written this, mainly because the majority of the words were unknown to him. This... thing, whatever it was, was not his homework, and he doubted even Hermione could have composed such phrases with weird words that her grandmother hadn't heard of back in 1900. And yet, the sloppy, small handwriting was definitely his, and 'Harry Potter' was written on top of the text. Even the parchment was his, he was sure of it, because, in his sleepy, overtired panic of 2 a.m. he had grabbed the first piece of parchment he had found, which happened to be a year old, yellowish and brittle. What the hell was happening?

"Harry?"

Ron's voice came from far away, even though he was sitting on the stool next to him.

"Yeah?" he muttered.

"You all right, mate? You've gone all pale..."

"I'm- I'm fine," Harry said, averting his gaze from the essay in what should look like a casual shrug, and spotted Hermione looking diagonally at his paper. Quickly, he folded it in an envelope and hid it away. Until he could find the source of the mistake, he didn't want to tell his friends. What if it were a trap? Hermione would become worried, and maybe even jealous, and they had enough drama in their lives already. "Just Snape decided to ignore me again," he rolled his eyes theatrically.

"That's really not fair," started Hermione, while Ron emphasised her words with a rude gesture. "Dumbledore should be aware of-"

The rest of Double-Potions passed in the usual way, and the final product, a watery Angel's Trumpet potion, was as different as usual from the indicated solution. But was Snape looking a bit too often at Harry, or was it just him being paranoid?

Harry had just decided that it was all Dobby's doing, since he had spotted the elf cleaning the Teachers' Room many times while Snape was listing all the reasons that made Harry both stupid and annoying, when he got back his History of Magic homework, this one decorated with a fat 'O' too. By the end of the day, Harry was the proud owner of four literally outstanding essays he could not recall ever writing. In addition to this, he had to rush to Umbridge's freakishly pink office to hack himself to pieces, before having to return to Gryffindor Tower to work some more on the new homework that could never match the grades he had just received, before having time to think how on earth this had happened.

* * *

He was running down the same dark corridor like every night, his eyes fixed on the door at the end, the doorknob gleaming in the dim light seductively, inviting him in. His own frantic footsteps were echoing on the walls, his breath wheezing in his ears and then he was there, touching the silver handle. He pushed the door open and it fell back easily, noiselessly, like any other time. But when he entered the room, the little lights that had been floating around since the night he started having these dreams were gone. Harry was standing in a vast, Victorian library where the books reached the ceiling and a happy fire was dancing in the fireplace, sending honey-flakes on the two leather armchairs before it. And on the left armchair a tall figure was sitting; the very familiar, deeply-loathed silhouette of Lord Voldemort.

Harry could clearly see the back of his bald head, perfectly round and whiter than snow, lightly inclined forwards. Instinctively, Harry's own head turned to the door, only to find solid wall there.

"There is no escape," Voldemort said in his characteristic high, clear voice. "You cannot leave."

Harry's fingers were tracing the wall frantically for a door, a hole, a crack, anything, but it was solid stone. Voldemort rose to his feet and his eyes shone a deeper crimson than the flames.

"But fear not, no harm will come to you here."

"Am I... dreaming?" Harry said hesitantly, wondering silently what that meant about his subconscious.

"Almost," Voldemort returned cryptically.

"Almost? Is this- is this real?" Harry demanded, this time feeling the panic creeping up to him.

"Almost," Voldemort repeated, and his snake-like face twitched in the imitation of a smile. "You are asleep, I am merely paying a visit to your mind."

"So, it's like a... a mind invasion or something?" asked Harry, feeling stupid and annoyed for having to ask.

"Or something," echoed Voldemort quietly, and, when Harry frowned, he added in a bored tone, "the Mind Arts are far too complicated to explain to those not gifted with Mental Powers."

"Thanks," Harry bit back, " it's exactly what I needed. Look, I've had a really long, complicated day and, since you can't kill me in this dream-thingy, how about you just let me have a less thrilling dream where I play Quidditch with my friends and you go do whatever Dark Lords do at night?"

"Dark Lords at night do the same things as ordinary wizards: have sex and sleep," Voldemort offered his unique insight, to Harry's absolute horror. "But apparently you are in need of advice, and I am willing to give it to you. Come, take a seat."

"Advice?" Harry yelled, his face red and hands shaking, while Voldemort sat back on his armchair and arranged the fabric of his long black robes around himself. "What the hell-"

"Sit and be quiet," Voldemort hissed, this time commandingly, and Harry found himself incapable of resisting the order.

He sat at the edge of the other armchair, not taking his eyes from the yew wand that was resting on the coffee table between them, next to a tall pile of books. Indeed Voldemort seized the wand, but, instead of a curse, he used it to conjure a tea set, a cake stand and a piece of already-written-on parchment. "Serve yourself," he said causally, "these cakes are to die for, Harry."

"I don't see you eating," Harry blurted out, for Voldemort had taken a pen and ink-bottle out of his robes and was starting to write on a particularly familiar parchment. "Is that- Is that my Transfiguration essay?" he sprang to his feet and attempted to take it back, but an invisible force held him back.

"No, but it will be when I am done," Voldemort said, his lips twisted upwards. "This is what I will be talking to you about. It has come to my attention that you are considered an average at best student, mediocre in your performance in magic and depressingly ignorant in your knowledge of the wizarding world. It is unacceptable."

"Huh?" Harry gaped at Voldemort. It was the last thing he could ever expect. "Did _you_ do those funny things with my essays?"

"'Excuse me' is the way polite, civilized people express their surprise and ask for elaboration. And yes, I wrote your essays for this school day, despite the fact that there was nothing funny about them. In fact, they are a perfect example of how a responsible, talented student works on their homework."

"Yeah," agreed Harry in a mocking voice, "all the kids here write at least one essay per week that includes the word 'inextricable'."

"Sarcasm is only impressive if you are already accomplished," Voldemort commented. "Inextricable was the word needed to pass the correct message. Words have set meanings for a reason. Now, if you are finished deflecting, we need to discuss your grades."

"My... what?" laughed Harry. "Are you serious?"

"No, it's a joke. The Chosen One walks into a bar and meets the Dark Lord who says, 'it is an embarrassment to the name of wizard to be so ignorant and dismissive towards the power of knowledge, so you shall receive private help in all subjects'," Voldemort deadpanned.

"You're not good at telling jokes," Harry said innocently.

"I am dead serious, Potter," Voldemort hissed. "I will not tolerate being ridiculed by a teenager who has never heard of the Superposition Principle. I am going to kill you in due time, but unless you start working hard and well, I will also appear in your dreams every single night without fail until some knowledge penetrates that thick skull of yours."

"Are you calling me stupid?"

"No, I am calling you lazy, which is worse. What you fail to understand is that knowledge gives you great power. Greater than anything else, because when knowing things, you can be ahead of the game, you can plan, and understand, and predict- all that is important to succeed in your aims. Now, start working." Voldemort handed Harry the homework he had finished just before going to bed. His foot-long essay on Vanishing Spells had all the mistakes crossed out in blazing red ink the same colour with the Dark Lord's eyes. He had also added a good twenty five inches of text at the bottom of Harry's work in the fine, chilling handwriting Harry had encountered when 'talking' with Tom Riddle from the diary. "I suggest you improve your penmanship as well," Voldemort added, as if he had read his mind- which he probably had. "Teachers prefer not to have their eyes gauged out when marking your O.W.L. papers, oddly enough."

Harry stared at the homework, where the ink seemed to be burning, angry and hot, his mistakes, and then at Voldemort himself, who looked as expressionless as ever.

"Don't you have anything better to do?" Harry inquired. "Sleep? Torture innocent people? Plan world domination?"

"I can multitask," Voldemort said charmingly. "The interest would be touching if I actually had a heart, but it simply annoys me."

"Then leave," suggested Harry.

"Having to deal with someone who has never heard the word 'inextricable' annoys me more. The disturbing part is that you find normal having to deal with the most powerful sorcerer in wizarding history without even putting an effort at school."

"Dumbledore is the most powerful sorcerer in wizarding history!" yelled Harry.

"No yelling, or I shall add lessons on manners in your curriculum. Now, if you actually had ever studied history, you would be able to tell the difference, so I forgive your words. And if you are a good boy and finish your work on time, I will tell you the tale of the epic duel in which I beat Dumbledore while still at school."

"What a treat. More fiction than reality like most tales, right?" Harry said, hoping whole-heartedly he was right and that Voldemort was making that up.

"Write and you shall find out," smirked Voldemort.

They appraised each other in a silent staring competition, making Harry's eyes sting before Voldemort had blinked once.

"So, you're really going to give me lessons?" asked Harry.

"Merely corrections, you are not nearly as talented as it takes to be given lessons from me."

"Well, if you put it this way, how could I ever say no?" sneered the teenager.

"You cannot say no anyway. You cannot leave the room and working will be a good distraction from focusing on my presence."

"You've thought of everything," Harry smiled sarcastically.

"I always do," agreed Voldemort seriously.

"Okay, then tell me one thing. Won't the teachers find it suspicious that I write great essays for homework with funny-looking words and stuff that only you've heard of, when I'm still the same at class and exams?"

"Which means you have to work very hard to achieve the high standard of those essays. And if anyone tries to follow you, there is nothing suspicious in your every day routine and right now you appear soundly asleep, dreaming of this wretched sport."

"I so wish I was dreaming of Quidditch, but..." frowned Harry.

"But you are studying instead. It is tragic indeed, I can hardly contain my tears. Now, pick up the pen and write. The goal is for you to be an 'O' student by the time I kill you."

 _A/N: Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think._

 _Note: Don't take seriously the paragraph from the essay. The separate points are true, but they belong in different subjects (Biology and Physics), and I'm not sure they should be mixed up._


End file.
